An Unexpected Encounter
by Joodiff
Summary: Swimming? Really? It's all her doctor's fault... Complete. (Warning: doesn't contain many clothes.) Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _A/N: Indulge me..._ ;)

* * *

 **An Unexpected Encounter**

by Joodiff

* * *

She's been dreading this moment of public exposure, but when a reluctant Grace arrives at the side of the pool, it's something of an anti-climax. There are two women who look to be in their late thirties swimming along side by side, seemingly somehow managing to hold a conversation as they breaststroke along at a pace that's steady but not exceptional, and there's a very fat, very hairy man who's probably coming up for retirement age stroking laboriously up and down with the sullen determination of someone who's not enjoying what he's doing, but knows he has to do it. She sympathises. Aside from the three people already in the water, none of whom spare her even the briefest of glances, there's only a young member of staff present – one who seems busy, but whose actual role seems unclear. Maybe, just maybe, this will not be quite as bad as she's been fearing since the moment she took her credit card in hand and made the call that sealed her fate.

Self-conscious in her newly-purchased plain dark blue swimsuit, she uses the nearest pool ladder to lower herself cautiously into the clear, chlorinated water. It's warmer than she expected, shivering memories of the icy cold municipal swimming pools of her youth quickly banished. Cool enough to encourage vigorous exercise, warm enough not to frighten away the already weak-willed. Still cautious, she launches forward into a rusty and not particularly elegant breaststroke, and somewhat to her surprise she's instantly swimming rather than sinking.

It's her doctor's fault, this brand new addition to her normal routine. A preventative measure rather than something more sinister, thank goodness, but one he'd been gently insistent about. Too stressed and too sedentary, that had been his considered opinion, and when Grace had truthfully protested that committing to some sort of regular daily – or at least twice-weekly – exercise at lunchtime or after work simply wasn't possible, he'd fixed her with a sorrowful and stern look that reminded her of her late father and suggested that getting up a little earlier a few times a week wouldn't be a great hardship, not for all the wonderful health benefits that would assuredly come her way.

So here she is; an unenthusiastic new member of one of those independent small mid-range health and fitness clubs that have sprung up all over London in the last twenty years. A new member with no intention whatsoever of _ever_ investigating anything other than the surprisingly decent-sized swimming pool on the ground floor. Let those who are far younger and foolhardier than her do what they will with all the sophisticated but tortuous-looking exercise equipment on the floor above.

Without warning the portly, hirsute man ploughs past her, creating a bow-wave that rocks her in the water. He reminds her a little of a seal, in size if not in aquatic ability, but her attention is drawn away from him by the arrival of a slim, athletic-looking brunette who dives straight into the pool without a moment's hesitation and starts to swim with a speed and strength that she can't help but find intimidating.

It's going to be worth it, Grace tells herself. Physically, mentally, emotionally, it's going to be worth it.

As two lengths become three, she starts to feel the pull of muscles that haven't been worked in such a concentrated way for years. It's not painful, not yet, but she finds herself wondering just how many lengths are too many lengths for her very first visit. Start slowly and build up, surely that's the key? But something, perhaps a touch of childish pride, prevents her from stopping and heading towards the ladder, the shower, the changing room, and her car. She'll wait until the first of her fellow swimmers exits the water, she decides, and then she'll follow a minute or two later.

Satisfied with her plan, Grace continues to swim. Not fast, but with quiet, patient determination.

Turning once again to begin another length, she spots the pool's latest arrival. Tall, broad-shouldered, and male. _Very_ male, she can't help noticing, given the close fit of his swimming trunks, but that's not what causes a sharp and potentially very unwise intake of breath – one that could have had very severe consequences if she hadn't been able to avoid a sudden unwelcome inhalation of water. It's not his all-too evident masculinity that's responsible for her spontaneous reaction, however, it's his identity.

It _can't_ be Boyd pacing along the edge of the pool, of course – it just can't be… but it unquestionably _is_. She's used to seeing him decently and elegantly besuited, naturally enough, but even so, she'd recognise him anywhere, and in an instant. He's just not the sort of man people fail to recognise, after all.

Startled isn't an accurate description of how Grace feels. Horrified is a little closer to the mark. Horrified with a touch of completely-bloody-mortified thrown in for good measure. To paraphrase Humphrey Bogart… _Of all the gyms in all the towns in all the world…_

It's not that much of a shocking coincidence, she supposes, not really. Not considering the geography of the local area, and that the very reason that she chose this particular establishment over any other was its relative proximity to work. What's more incredible is her complete lack of foresight. It didn't cross her mind, not even once, the very real possibility of encountering someone she knew, let alone one of her CCU colleagues.

And least of all Peter Boyd. Damn him.

Realising she's still doing some kind of automatic and unattractive doggy paddle following the only-just-averted water inhalation crisis, Grace makes a stern effort to gather her wits about her. There's very little she can do about the situation now. He hasn't spotted her yet, but he will. No question about it. He may need his reading glasses for small print, but there's nothing else wrong with his damn eyesight, and when he stops and turns...

There's really no chance of escaping undetected. All she can do is maintain some kind of dignified poise and wait for him to make the first move. Yes, that would work. Pretend she hasn't seen him, and when he greets her – as he inevitably will – react with cool, self-assured aplomb. Maybe he'll be as equally unsettled by her presence as she is by his. He'll certainly be just as surprised. Maybe –

No. Who the hell is she trying to kid? He will be every bit as infuriatingly confident as he always is, and predictably amused by any hint of discomfiture he detects in her. There's no chance on God's green earth that he will suffer any of the agonies she's currently going through.

Long legs, Grace thinks, inadvertently looking at him again. But then, she knew that. Muscular thighs. She didn't know that. Though she might have sometimes suspected so, on those rare occasions when he's deigned to break into a run for some reason undoubtedly connected to Spencer's absence at his side.

 _What the hell am I thinking?_ she asks herself. _For heaven's sake, Grace! Now is not the time to be…_

Boyd has stopped at the far end of the pool, and is stretching as he prepares to dive. She's swimming more or less straight towards him, give or take an imaginary lane or two, but – thank God – he still hasn't noticed her. Though, why would he? He's younger than her by a margin, and he's an attractive man who draws speculative female glances wherever he goes. It's a fair bet that if he's looking at anyone, it's at the slim, fit brunette who's probably not a day over thirty-five. And the greatest tragedy is that she will undoubtedly look back at him, and then he'll give her that smile, and then…

There's no splash as he hits the water, just a purposeful wave that radiates out from his point of entry. It was a foregone conclusion, really. Smooth, efficient. Graceful, even. Though not as he heads towards her, arm over arm in a fast, powerful crawl. Strong and coordinated, certainly, but far from graceful now. Grace doesn't mind – the more effort and concentration he puts into the task, the less likely he is to identify the much slower oncoming swimmer to his right.

He's past her in a blur of shoulders and biceps, a long length of back and legs, and the danger is momentarily past. She wonders if she can reach the pool ladder and be out of the water and away before he turns for the return length. It's a possibility. A gamble, certainly, but one that just might pay off. Get out, get clear, and never, ever return. If they won't refund her membership fee, well, she's prepared to stand the loss. It's got to be worth it, just to preserve her damn dignity.

She's almost at the ladder when she collides with something very solid. In fact, Grace is not the collid _er_ but the collid _ee_ , though it's definitely her fault for crossing the presumed lanes without paying enough attention. Fortunately she's not quite out of her depth, but the collision is still heavy and unexpected. Part-winded, she finds herself looking into pale grey eyes that appear magnified by oval-lensed swimming goggles. It's the large man who reminded her so much of a seal, and he doesn't look happy. Not at all.

"Watch where you're going, will you?" he barks at her, his accent far more Chelsea than Canning Town. Grace isn't given to making quick assumptions about people, but she immediately makes a fair few about him, and none of them are positive. Ignoring her half-hearted attempts to placate him, he grumbles and gesticulates, drawing the attention of the loitering member of staff, who watches with what Grace can only describe as considered disinterest.

And not only the staff member's attention.

"Is there a problem here?" a deep, smooth but just-ever-so-slightly intimidating voice queries from above them.

Boyd is standing on the edge of the pool, hands on hips, looking down at them, rivulets of water running down his skin. He's not exactly a small man, and towering over them he looks even bigger. Grace isn't the sort of women who generally requires rescuing from unwanted conflict, but somehow, despite the extraordinary situation, she's very glad to see him. The hairy seal man is large, too, but almost all of his considerable bulk is most definitely the legacy of too much alcohol and too many multi-coursed expense account meals. He blusters in response to the question, but something in the way Boyd is regarding him seems to discourage him from continuing his tirade. With a final growl to her about being more careful in future, he swims away to resume his ponderous length-counting.

Looking up at her colleague, Grace is resigned to the poorly-disguised twist of amusement she sees in his expression. His gaze is steady enough, but she's known him too long not to know that he's thoroughly enjoying himself. And why not? He's not a young man, but it appears he's in rather better physical condition than she's ever given him credit for, and that's… annoying. It's several other things, too, but she's damned if she's going to let her thoughts wander in that direction. Not under the circumstances.

"I thought it was you," he says in a conversational tone, "and when I saw the commotion, I was certain of it. You're supposed to stay in your own lane, you know."

"There aren't any," she points out, and her asperity isn't feigned.

"That's what the lines on the pool floor are for," he tells her helpfully, lowering himself to sit on the edge, feet splashing idly before disappearing below the water's surface. "Cutting across someone like that? Very poor form."

Muscular calves, surprisingly sharp-looking shinbones. Hairy. There's an old, old scar across his left knee that might well be the legacy of some serious childhood misadventure. She looks up at him again, refusing to linger on anything between knees and face. _Anything_. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Give me a chance; it's only just past eight. I thought I'd have a quick swim. Kickstart the cardiovascular system, that sort of thing." He tilts his head a quizzical fraction. "I thought you were a staunch advocate of simply eating sensibly and walking to the shops instead of driving. 'Exercise is for – '"

"Yes, yes," Grace says, interrupting what is, to be fair, a reasonably good impression of her voice. "Go on, let's get it out of the way. Mock me as much as you like."

Dark eyes that don't betray their secrets easily continue to regard her with steady composure. "I'm not mocking you."

"Huh," is her derisive retort. He's unlikely to share the events of the morning with their co-workers, she knows that, but he can be merciless in his relentless teasing when he wants to be. It possible – even likely – that she'll be hearing about this at select moments for months, possibly years, to come.

"Nice swimming costume," he says.

Oh, God. Thankful that everything from her shoulders down is submerged, Grace fixes him with the iciest glare she can summon. "At least _mine_ is well within the acceptable parameters of decency."

It's a mistake. She realises it the moment the slow, wicked grin starts to appear. "'Acceptable parameters of decency', eh? Well, I'm flattered that you were looking, Grace, but – "

"Shut up," she interrupts, maintaining her ferocious glare. "Not another _word_ out of you."

Boyd obeys, at least briefly, but his grin doesn't fade. Not one iota. It's disconcerting, bewitching and distracting, that grin, and it's only enhanced by the dancing spark of mischief she can see in his eyes, and just for a moment she wants him so badly that it causes a very real, very physical tightening in her chest, one that makes it difficult to breath for a few frightening seconds. It's not his state of undress that's responsible – secretly very enticing though that is – it's purely the tempting lure of that bright, wicked spark.

"Are you getting out, then?" he inquires.

The breathless moment shattered, Grace nods. "That was the general idea, yes."

It's her second mistake in as many minutes, because he duly extends a hand down to her, his intention quite clear. Letting him haul her out of the water has very little appeal, but the pool ladder is still a distance away, and there's no good reason she can immediately think of to eschew one method of exit for the other. At least, not a good reason that she wants to reveal to him. He's watching her with the same steady amusement, clearly waiting to see what she's going to do next, and it's his infuriating, smug calm that makes her reach up and grab his outstretched hand. She's damned if she's going to let him think he's unsettled her in even the smallest way. His hand closes around hers, and either Boyd is a lot stronger than he looks, or scrabbling out of the water without a ladder has become rather easier than she remembers, because suddenly she's halfway out, then she's got purchase on the edge, and can immediately slither round to sit next to him. There's a palpable gap between them, just as there always is, but that doesn't help much. She's still far too aware of the proximity of his bare skin to hers.

"I take it this is a new thing, is it?" he asks, glancing at her before returning his gaze to the water. "Since we haven't stumbled across each other before."

"Mm." It's as noncommittal as she can possibly make it. "I didn't realise that you…"

"…or you wouldn't have come here?" he suggests. He can be irritatingly perceptive when he wants to be.

Honesty – partial honesty – might be the best policy after all. Not looking at him, she grimaces. "Well, it feels a bit weird. Don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know."

With some considerable suspicion, she gives him a sideways glance. "Meaning?"

"Meaning… I'm rather enjoying the view, myself."

Not knowing how he expects her to reply, Grace makes a disgruntled, dismissive noise and tries a waspish, "Boyd, you stopped flirting with me the moment you discovered it got you precisely nowhere, remember?"

"Is that what I'm doing? Flirting with you?"

"I don't know," she tells him, "because I'm not paying the slightest bit of attention."

His reply is a deep, good-natured chuckle. One that's followed by, "So what about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

"Are you enjoying the view, as well?"

For all the deliberate edge of mischief, it's a loaded question. Heavily loaded, if she's not very much mistaken, and that, more than the actual question itself, surprises her. She turns her head, finds him watching her again, his gaze intent. There's a sudden undercurrent between them that has nothing to do with the water they're both idly stirring with their bare feet. A definite and dangerous undercurrent, one that's far from new, but doesn't always exert such a strong pull. Grace doesn't look away, finds herself trying to decode all the complicated, confusing signals he's consciously or unconsciously projecting towards her. She's almost startled by the sound of her own voice. "Boyd…"

He leans towards her an infinitesimal fraction, and for a split second she's absolutely certain he's going to kiss her. He doesn't. Something, be it indecision, common-sense, or some kind of automatic defence mechanism, stops him at the very last instant, and he straightens up, his attention suddenly and very rigidly fixed on the surface of the water.

For a second or two Grace savours the bittersweet sting of the lost moment, relief and disappointment winding together into something she can't put a name to. All the wrong things, all the rights things. All the difficulties and disappointments. Everything there is between them – all the very real daily exasperations, all the carefully-hidden underlying attraction.

He says, "It's not a problem. Not for me, anyway."

It's a _non sequitur_. Frowning, she asks, "What?"

"This," Boyd responds, more than a hint of impatience giving the word an abrasive edge. "I don't manage to get here half as often as I should. We're not going to be running into each other every bloody morning."

"Oh."

There's a long moment of awkward silence before he says, "I'd better get back to it, I suppose. Don't want to be late for work."

"No," she agrees, half-hearted at best. "Setting a bad example for the new girl, that sort of thing."

"Quite. Think she's going to fit in?"

The blunt question surprises her. "Stella? Yes, I think so. If you give her a chance."

"Hm." He drops a palm down onto the tiles, levers himself up into a crouch. "She's not like Mel, is she?"

"No." The pain of memory and regret is intense, but it ebbs to a dull ache much faster than Grace expects. "And it's not fair to expect her to be."

Boyd doesn't reply. Instead, he stands up, flexes, and dives back into the water, surfacing in a shower of glistening droplets as he shakes his head and swims back towards her. There's not much else she can do but enjoy the view. Powerful shoulders, well-defined biceps. If he's aware of her scrutiny, well, she suddenly finds she doesn't care much. It's a matter of perspective. Life and death, what's important and what's not.

He comes to a halt just a foot or two away, finding the bottom of the pool with his feet and standing up, the water level that was over her shoulders barely mid-chest on him. Sleek, smooth. She doesn't look away as he wipes his face with his hand, flicking the water away with a sharp gesture. Beads of it still run down his cheeks into the brindled stubble of his neatly-trimmed beard. She doesn't stop watching him, even when his dark gaze meets hers.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks again, the mischief back in his tone, his expression.

She wonders why they bother trying to hide so much from each other when they're both so aware of all the things that shouldn't be, but simply are. She nods. "Oh, yes. Most definitely."

Boyd regards her for a moment, strangely impassive, and then, just before he strikes out again, he grins. Fleeting, but oh-so telling.

She watches him for a few moments more before getting up and heading for the changing room. Grace, at least, isn't going to be late for work. Not today.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
